


The Best Place

by Gigi_Sinclair



Category: Tintin - All Media Types
Genre: Animal Death, Future Fic, Happy Ending, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-16
Updated: 2020-05-16
Packaged: 2021-03-03 03:54:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,694
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24218464
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Gigi_Sinclair/pseuds/Gigi_Sinclair
Summary: "He's buried atop the highest hill on the grounds of Moulinsart, beneath a leafy, ancient oak. "
Relationships: Archibald Haddock/Tintin
Comments: 6
Kudos: 54





	The Best Place

**Author's Note:**

> "The best place to bury a good dog is in the heart of his master." Ben Hur Lampman

He's buried atop the highest hill on the grounds of Moulinsart, beneath a leafy, ancient oak. 

It was Milou's favourite spot. He would lie there, the king of all he surveyed, barking at any birds that dared encroach on his territory. On warm summer afternoons, he would nap while Tintin and the Captain picnicked, or played chess, or, later, made love on a blanket in the grass. 

The place isn't marked, at least not yet, but Tintin doesn't need a gravestone to know where the Captain dug the hole to which Tintin, eyes dry because he had cried all his tears, consigned the body of his best friend. 

Tintin always knew the day would arrive, of course, and no one could say Milou had not lived his long life to the fullest. Just a few months before he died, he was in Singapore, on the trail of a band of nefarious art thieves targeting museums all over the world. 

He'd been as loved as any dog ever was, and much more than most. Despite Tintin's admonitions, the Captain never failed to feed Milou from the table when there was bacon or beef on offer. And no matter where they were, be it in a tent in the Australian Outback or a posh hotel in Tokyo or at home at Moulinsart, Milou slept every night in bed with them, often right between them. 

“Despicable dogs, Tintin”—the Captain cried more than once, when he reached out for Tintin in the night and got an armful of Milou instead–“He belongs on the floor.” Despite his grumbling, the Captain was the one to lift Milou onto the bed in his final days, when Milou had grown too feeble to make the jump himself. 

It is the Captain, too, who finds Tintin sitting beneath Milou's tree. He sits down heavily, collapsing beside him on the grass with a huff of breath. That's the only sound he makes. He doesn't attempt to touch Tintin, but sits in silence for a protracted moment, until Tintin reaches out and puts a hand over his. 

“I'm damned sorry, Tintin.” He sounds so sincere, it reminds Tintin of when he was drinking, when every new day brought a new apology, heartfelt and genuine and entirely forgotten the moment the Captain laid eyes on another bottle. 

“You don't have to say that.” Tintin is sincere, as well. “It was just a surprise, that's all.” 

Tintin had awoken to find himself alone in bed. After three months of heartbreaking disappointment, he was at last starting not to expect to see Milou the moment he opened his eyes, but the Captain was normally beside him. Tintin went downstairs, and found him in the drawing room, a curious smile on his face. 

“I have something for you, lad,” he said, when Tintin kissed him good morning. 

Tintin was perplexed. “A gift? Why?”

“Come on.” Intrigued, Tintin followed him out into the garden. Confined in an improvised pen made from piled up firewood, a fat white puppy rolled on the dewy grass. 

“Beautiful, ain't she?” The Captain beamed. She was lovely, and the sight of her, at once so like Milou and so unlike him, was too much for Tintin to bear. 

He fled, the Captain calling after him. He didn't stop until he arrived at Milou's spot on the hill. 

“I should have thought,” the Captain goes on, his hand squeezing Tintin's. “It's too soon. Milou's barely been gone three months, I know, but Castafiore wrote to me to say a friend of hers in Charleroi had a litter of white terrier puppies for sale.”

“You dealt with Signora Castafiore? For me?” Tintin smiles. “Must be love, Captain.” 

“Aye. And she managed to screech even in her letter.” Tintin shifts, letting go of the Captain's hand to rest his head on one broad, jumper-clad shoulder. Captain Haddock puts an arm about his waist, pulling him in close. “I am sorry,” he repeats. “I should have talked to you before pulling a stunt like that. But I'm not getting any younger either, and the thought of you ending up alone...” 

Tintin's heart, always in precarious condition around this man, gives a twist. “You're not dying any time soon.” 

“You and your foolish adventures certainly aren't doing anything to help my longevity,” the Captain complains, as he's been doing for years. Tintin knows, as he has for years, that if he asked the man to go, right now, to the furthest reaches of Africa or South America or to the North Pole or even the moon, the Captain would do it at once, complaints and all. 

Their move from friendship to love had come as easily to Tintin as their move from acquaintanceship to fast friends. Tintin had never thought much about love affairs, but when the Captain proudly told him he was six months sober—something Tintin had noticed, but deliberately not remarked upon—it seemed the most natural thing in the world for Tintin to congratulate him with a kiss. The Captain blustered and turned red, but, as always, he was happy to do as Tintin wanted. Eager, even. They ended up tumbling almost directly into bed, Tintin laughing and feeling so very comfortable, even though this was new territory for him. Tintin trusted the Captain to know the way. 

He still trusts him, implicitly. Tintin raises his head to kiss one whiskered cheek, then returns his head to the Captain's shoulder. “I have a long time with you yet,” Tintin assures him.

“Not as long as if you'd found someone your own age.” 

Tintin sighs. This is a periodic discussion, usually sparked by Tintin receiving a letter from Tchang, or one of his other friends. “Maybe not,” Tintin concedes, as he does every time. In reality, given the life Tintin leads, it is just as likely he will die before the Captain as the other way around. Tintin has learned that it doesn't help to raise this point. “But nobody else would make me as happy as you do.”

“Blistering barnacles, my boy, I spent enough years making you sad.” Tintin is a little taken aback by his vehemence. They don't talk about the drinking. The Captain has conquered it, for now. That doesn't mean it can never return. Tintin knows it's still a struggle for him, and that he has to remain constantly on his guard to keep that demon at bay. He does it for Tintin. One more way in which the Captain is a good man. A good sweetheart, although he would roll his eyes if Tintin used the word. 

They sit in silence a few minutes longer. 

“I'll ask Nestor to take the puppy back to Charleroi,” the Captain says, at last. “He'll be glad of a trip out.” 

“I think it's for the best.” Tintin is not opposed to a new dog, one day, but none can ever compare to Milou. It's not fair to get another one before he's come to terms with that. 

Captain Haddock stands, and Tintin follows. A rumble in his stomach reminds him he still hasn't had breakfast. 

“We should get a plaque,” the Captain says. “Or a stone, maybe. Something to mark the spot where he's buried.” 

Before Tintin can reply, he hears a yipping bark. Tintin and Captain Haddock look up to see the puppy coming towards them, waddling as fast as possible on her little legs. She falls on the grass, rolls, and gets right back up, continuing her march in their direction. 

“Did Nestor let her out of the pen?” The Captain wonders. 

“That seems unlikely.” But they are a good eight hundred metres from the house. That the little puppy made it this far is even more astonishing.

When she sees them, the puppy further quickens her pace. Automatically, Tintin kneels, and she leaps without hesitation into his arms, licking him as if to say, _There you are._

Tintin returns the favour, burying his nose in her soft fur. The puppy wriggles in excitement, redoubling her efforts to kiss every part of Tintin's face. That is usually the Captain's job. Tintin glances up and he sees him looking on with a rare, wide grin. 

This dog is not Milou. Milou was unique. _But perhaps_ , Tintin thinks, _this dog is special in her own way._

Tintin catches the Captain's eye. “Do we want another dog so soon?” That _we_ is important. Milou loved the Captain, but he was Tintin's dog. This dog, any new dog, should belong to both of them. 

“It's up to you, Tintin, lad.” 

It's not, not really. Everybody Tintin has ever loved has come to him by chance, making a home in his heart sometimes before Tintin even realized his depth of feeling. Milou, the Captain, even Tournesol and the Dupondts and his other friends. All of them chose Tintin. Maybe this little dog is choosing him, too. 

He looks down. The puppy licks his nose. Tintin laughs, really laughs, for the first time since he lost Milou. The Captain does the same, and when Tintin raises his gaze, he sees relief on the Captain's handsome face. 

_A good man_ , he repeats to himself. A good husband, and it scarcely matters Tintin will never be able to call him that. 

“What might we name her?” Tintin asks. He threads one arm through the Captain's; with the other, he holds the puppy close. 

“Médor?” The Captain suggests, somewhat unimaginatively. Tintin shakes his head. The puppy is as white as snow, he notices. Perhaps something related to that? 

Tintin is a man of facts, of truth. Still, he's had enough experience with Inca curses and Yetis and all the rest to know there is much of the unexplained in this world. As he and the Captain walk away, Tintin can feel Milou watching them from that favourite spot of his, head on his paws and a look of doggy happiness on his face.

_Good boy_ , Tintin thinks, because it would worry the Captain to hear him say it aloud. _Stay._

Tintin knows he will. Milou was always a good dog. And so is this one. Tintin can feel it.

**Author's Note:**

> Médor is the French version of Fido or Rover, a generic dog name.


End file.
